Effigy
by SashaDaae
Summary: Hermione has a delivery to make, but she's not sure what it is or who it is for- someone she has not thought about, not cared to remember since she was an eleven year old girl...


Disclaimer: Nothing!

This was originally meant as a stand-alone piece, but it may also easily fit in as a sort of "chapter after" my story, _**Prince of Fools.**_

Reviews are always appreciated. Since it has finally turned to Spring, I no longer use flames for fire- I just forward them to Voldemort for a wee bit of fun. Heh.

_____

It isn't a bad day. But it is by no means a good day either.

I would perhaps call it somewhere right in the middle, a bit plain, like most days- rainy, Wizards huddled in their sweeping black coats while the retreating forms of my Muggle parents shrug in their brightly colored rain jackets.

They wanted to explore Diagon Alley, despite the fact they have been here so many times. I'd made them promise me not to go anywhere _near_ Knockturn Alley- in a silly way I felt quite like the adult rather than the child (despite the fact that I am of legal age, thank you very much).

You see, I have something to deliver.

I was in Madame Malkin's, in need of a new robe- I have a job interview at the Ministry, and of course that requires much nicer robes than usual, something not too fancy but not too casul either, but this is all beside the point. The woman behind the counter introduced herself as Cirilla, and she was talkative and very pretty- the kind of pretty that I wanted to be when I was eleven, with my frizzy hair and buck teeth. Yet I was sure she must have been in her forties or so.

She'd looked at me strangely as she packaged my new robe, quite keenly, like she was observing some ancient artifact she had never come across and was deciding if it was worthy or would bring ill. "I feel like I can trust you, Hermione Weasley." She had finally announced, before pulling out a piece of paper from beneath the counter.

"Can you take this to Saint Mungo's for me? You see, I'm leaving for Scotland early tomorrow, and simply do not have time to drop it off myself." Cirilla's eyes had turned hard then, calculating, as if daring me to open it and read its precious contents. I'd agreed and she had thanked me profusely as I exited the shop.

"I have an errand I have to make." I explained hurriedly to my parents. "Do you mind? I need to go alone and-"

Of course they had thought it just fine immediately.

Sometimes I wonder if they just want to get away from me- Hermione Granger, their daughter, the witch.

_____

"Hello, I have something to deliver today!" I exclaim in rather fake cheerfulness to the Welcome Witch. She's young, even younger than I am, and certainly less mature. Flipping through her magazine, she probably could care less about the people in this hospital and would rather spend her time in front of a mirror.

"Interesting." She yawns before holding out a well-manicured hand to take it. I shift from one foot to the other as she glances at it, utterly careless. I long to make a comment, to snap at her for her laziness, when she does a double take, her light blue eyes flashing.

"You'll want to take this up yourself, Miss. Very top floor."

She shoos me out of the way, quickly, like I am a disease, and suddenly I'm anxious. What could be so awful a thing to deliver that this silly Welcome Witch has turned her attention from her magazine articles to muttering phrases ("absurd, ridiculous", "no one up there..") under her breath?

But I might as well go. I've made a promise, and I intend on keeping it. If there's anything I learned in the schoolyard of St. Helga's, it is that you never, ever break a promise.

____

The hallway is long, and very, very, white. It's almost fake, quite like the dentures I used to look at when my father was working and I sat in his office, humming and playing with the tools.

Another Healer on the ward (again, behind a desk with a stupid magazine- _fashion,_ of all things, I wonder if she's friends with Lavender Brown) pointed me in the direction of where to go, and it feels quite like an endless road of nothingness. In a strange way I am reminded of the Department of Mysteries, without its darkness and strange alluring feel.

My heels echo on the floor as I stroll along until I finally come to the appointed place- Room 650. My hand hesitates on the handle- might as well pull out my wand, just in case, you never know what happens when you open a door, I have certainly learned_ that_ over the years…

Taking a deep breath, I push it open and stick out my wand in front of me, quickly surveying for danger. But all I see is a bed, a lone shoddy cot in a large white room.

If there is anyone in here, they surely must have gone insane in this room alone.

I clear my throat as way of introduction before making my way over to the bed and gasp- I should have expected someone to be in there, residing underneath the flimsy blankets, but I did not expect a pile of bones and ash.

The body in the bed is so sunken and frail, at first glance one would think it is a part of the bed, dirty sheets waiting to be changed. But, looking closer, you see lips, cracked and thirsty; a hand, resting lamely on top of the sheets, its former paleness obstructed instead by scabs and hideous burns. You can barely hear the person breathing, so quiet and sickly this individual is.

I never knew Professor Quirrell had survived, yet here he is.

I observe him silently, feeling like a rude little child staring at a cripple or an old deranged woman in the street, so repulsed am I- my eyes roam from his hand, missing a finger and the thumb, upwards. His neck is bare, soiled by burns so deep I fear I may see bone or something even more awful, so I look away and instead focus on his face.

I would not say Quirrell was handsome, probably due to the fact that his speech and mannerisms overpowered any other trait he possessed. Looking back, he certainly wasn't _bad-looking_- once you got past the eerie fact that it was Lord Voldemort underneath that awful-smelling turban. He was always so pale, pale and silent, or else stammering whilst students snickered and made fun of how odd he was.

But that face I once considered the mark of a shy and weak professor was now inflamed with decayed skin, some of it charred and pulled away from his cheek, as if it had simply melted. Others were an angry red, like the very worst sunburn that never heals completely. Part of his nose has collapsed, causing him to breathe ever so softly out of his mouth.

I gaze long and hard at that lone spot where his nose should be when I shriek and nearly fall from sudden shock- his left eye- there _is_ no eye. It is simply missing, gone. My hand trembles as I lift it to my mouth, his hand stirring feebly before settling again.

Only a small part of his face is intact, baring his other eye and a small portion of cheek and forehead. His lips are cracked, as if he has not tasted water in months, maybe years- but surely he must have, otherwise he would not be alive….

Gathering myself, I straighten my back and put my wand in my pocket- there is certainly no need for it now, there is no way possible he is a danger. I listen carefully to his breathing, gaze at that hand resting over where his ribcage is- almost as if even in his sleep he wants to be sure there is still life in him.

"Professor?" I begin. He does not move, not one bit, aside from that appendage over his body. "Professor Quirrell?"

I cannot touch him, cannot imagine being near him. Slowly, I take a couple steps closer, crouching down on my knees so that me and the bed are level. My hand reaches out- oh God, I can't bear it, it's too _awful_- when his one eye flutters open slowly.

I snap my hand back and swallow. "Professor Quirrell, do you remember me?" I ask, softly, immediately. Might as well speak, talk, there's no way I can leave now that he is awake.

He turns his head so he may face me, licking his lips, eye grazing over my face. "H-H-Hermione…G-Grang-ger." Even those two simple words are painful for him, like extracting teeth when you've already been in the seat for an hour or two and suffered enough pain. He still has his stammer, I notice. Maybe that was not an act after all, that silly speech pattern of his, like Harry claimed it was.

"Yes." I nod, smiling for him. "I am."

"Why…a-are…you…v-v-visiting m-m-me?"

I open my mouth, then snap it shut immediately. I can hardly tell him I am only here to drop something off, then leave again, shutting the door behind me, shutting him off to the world once more. I can't do that, no matter how awful he looks. "A comrade told me you were here, so I thought I may visit." I murmur the lie, the little white lie. He was there when I told my first white lie, about the troll. The troll he let in to the castle.

What can only be a smile morphs on that hideous face of his. "T-that is…s-so k-kind…you w-were a-always so…so s-s-sweet, Miss G-Gra-a-anger.."

"Weasley." I blurt. "It's Weasley now, I married Ron Weasley not long ago. You probably remember him, he had a lot of brothers, the twins and Percy and some more before that but I don't know if you taught them…" Why does he care? Why am I telling him this?

He lets out a breath slowly through his nose before mustering the energy to chuckle. "H-how wonder-" my old professor barely finishes his sentence before he is sent into a fit of coughing, that hand gripping his side as if clawing at it will make the pain go away.

And there's nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do to relieve him.

He finally settles back among the pillows and the blanket, gasping for breath. "F-funny, that y-you…should e-e-even think of m-me…after a- after all this t-time.."

I feel dreadful inside, that stupid swish in my belly like there's something I should have done, more I could have done to make things all right. "I had no idea you would be all the way up here," I admit, my hand resting just on the edge of the cot.

He licks his lips again. "N-no one d-does…I-if y-y-you look…for me..o-on the h…h…hospital..registry, I a-a-am n-not l-listed, n-not o-once!"

It's like they have wiped him off the face of the earth, out of history. And I can't blame them. "Perhaps because of what you did, ever ponder that?" I say coldly, sure he knows what I mean.

And he does. A small whimper passes his lips, a ragged breath following. "Y-y-y-yes."

Is that all? A stupid confirmation, one word drawn out by his stupid stammer? I grip the edge of the cot so tightly I feel like I could rip it in half. "That's all you have to say is yes? Do you realize what you have done?" I shriek. "You might as well have brought Lord Voldemort back for us, you idiot! Thanks to you, people have_ died_, do you realize that? And here you sit in a hospital ward, you should be _thankful_-"

I stop, gathering a breath to continue when he interrupts. His blue eye is squeezed shut, tightly. "I...a-am not..a-a-asking f-for mem...memories...t-t-t-trust me...I r-r-relive...them....every d-day..." his voice becomes hard and raspy. "Y-y-you think I a-a-am..not...thankful? W-w-why sh-should I b-b-be? D-d-death would..have b-b-been...p-preferable...Do not..t-t-talk about t-t-things...y-y-you do n-not under..unders-s-stand." He goes silent then, staring at the ceiling.

How do I argue with that? What do I say? Of course I don't understand what it must be like, tormented day in and day out with such horrible memories. But I would never be stupid enough to be duped by that evil being, would never betray those who have done so much for me...

Would I?

Suddenly, I remember the real reason I am here, not the lie I told him to satisfy that small bit of beating heart that is left. I grab the paper and hold it out. "Here," I say awkwardly. "I brought this."

He stares at it sullenly. A shiver riveting down his back, he shakes his head. "P-please…r-r-read it to…me."

I clear my throat, opening it hesitantly. None of this is my business, I am sure, but he wants me to read it anyway. I feel a pang, a bit of sympathy as I begin.

"_Quirinus-_

_I am sorry that I have never once visited you. I found out through a friend that you were in Saint Mungo's, but she wouldn't dare tell me why you were there or for even how long. If I had known, I would have come every single week, but of course it's too late for that now._

_I'm leaving to go live in Scotland, you see. It's really sudden, I know, but I've a better job opportunity there, not to mention I'll be closer to my fiancé. _

_Once more, I am very sorry."_

The letter is signed by Cirilla, her name large and embellished at the bottom of the page. I feel my lip trembling, despite all the resolve I hold- don't cry, don't react! I raise my eyes to my former teacher.

It's short and lame, clipped and not apologetic, not one bit. This Cirilla, who I thought was so kind and generous, seems so very cold to me now.

He is still in the bed, his body turned toward me, but his one eye is closed. He is so eerily still I'm struck by the fear he's dead, already gone, gone from heartbreak. But then, slowly, he sighs- the long sigh that my grandfather used to give when he was sick in the hospital, weary with life and all he had been through.

The eye opens, blue and bottomless. There is no sadness in that one orb, though, no flicker of disappointment or rage. After a moment he speaks, lips barely moving.

"Fiancé."

"Professor, I'm so sorry." I whisper, barely audible this time. I had no idea, no concept that this man who tried to kill one of my best friends ever could have loved.

But that wasn't him, was he? He was possessed by Voldemort, that was not the real Quirrell. Not Quirinus. Despite my earlier disgust, I touch his hand gently. It's not warm, not cold, nothing in between- it is too scalded to really feel like anything.

There is a strangled sob from him. I feel my own eyes welling with tears, but I don't know why. Mere moments ago I wanted to yell, to accuse him and hold him accountable for all his wrongdoings.

That was always my downfall. Sympathy for the Malfoys. Sympathy for Harry, even when he was dreadful to us. Sympathy for Severus Snape.

But this man, lying in front of me in so much agony..does he deserve it?

I hold his hand loosely in my palm as he breathes loudly, mustering the strength to speak. "I…l-l-loved her.." he explains, rather unnecessarily. "B-b-but then…V-Voldemort, he sa-said…"

"Love is for the weak." I finish. He nods, just barely, a slow jut of the chin to his chest.

"Y-y-yes. W-what...could I...d-d-do? I s-s-sent her..owls...but h-he still..k-knew. S-she never responded t-to them. W-why n-not..."

It's a childish thing to wonder, why she never spoke to him. "I don't know, Professor." I murmur. "I wish I could tell you the answer."

"A-a-always have..the..a-answers, d-d..don't you, M…Miss W-Weasley?" a hoarse, alarming noise rises from his throat, a lame, hollow laugh.

I can't argue with that, because he is right. I suck in my cheeks, wondering- would it be right to ask? I must know. "How did you survive?"

"I..d-don't…k-know."

It's not the answer I wanted, and I feel bitterly disappointed. He has to know, there's no possible way he has no idea. "I don't know" has never been an answer for me, and I am not about to accept it now.

His three remaining appendages wrap weakly around my hand. "I k-know…you h-have always s-s-sought the…truth…b-but I cannot..g-give it…" he eyes me warily. "D-Dumbledore…s-speak w-with him."

And it strikes me- he has been so closed off from this world, he has not even heard of something so major, so catastrophic. "Professor.." I ask slowly. "Have you heard anything..do they talk to you at the hospital?"

He pauses, mulling over my (rather vague) question. "N-no. T-t-they…were k-kind enough t-to inf-inform m-m-me of..P-P-Potter's triumph.." a shadow crosses the little bit of recognizable face he has when he says that name. I feel his grip on my hand tighten only slightly when his attention shifts. "Y-y-you are..not here..to v-visit."

I blush, betraying myself to him. "No, professor." I murmur, feeling like a scolded student. "This woman, Cirilla, asked me to deliver the letter to you, and I could hardly say no."

His scalded lips form in a strange sneer, something I would expect from Severus Snape- not Quirrell. "I s-s-should have..k-k-known. It i-is n-n-not…h-her f-fault…" for a short moment his grip slackens, but I squeeze it in turn.

I feel so strange, sitting here with a man who should be dead, holding his hand. A former professor who walked around the halls of Hogwarts with a deadly secret, a man who aided in the near demise of my world as I knew it.

Yet I feel no animosity- not the animosity I felt for people like Bellatrix Lestrange and that filthy werewolf. Nor do I feel pity.

Holding his hand, I don't know what I feel.

____

I've stayed here for too long, by now my parents will surely be wondering what has happened to me.

I peel my hand from his own and place it back on his chest, feeling rather morbid- isn't this what people do with corpses? He's drifting off to sleep again.

We have spoken about my wedding, Harry and Ginny, a couple other students and developments on the teachers. To my surprise, he wept when I told him of Severus' death. Never did I expect that, so strong was my belief at the ignorant age of eleven that he hated the Potions professor.

And now, I must leave him. Leave him to what, I don't know- more white walls, watery soup, silence? He has told me next to nothing about himself, his life, and I am curious.

Too curious.

"I'll visit you, tomorrow." I whisper. It's not a promise, not a lie. If anything it is an assurance for a dying man. He does not respond- no small nod, no twitch in his face. But the hand moves softly over the blankets, reassuring me that, yes, he heard. I have to know- have to have the answers. What happened so many years ago is haunting me again. Tomorrow I shall return and ask him, prompt him to confess, to atone...

I close the door gently behind me before striding out of the room, out of St. Mungo's.

_____

It is early Tuesday morning. I came here to get coffee- a sleepless night urged me here for some reason, rather than downstairs to make a homemade pot. I left Ron a note, he'll have nothing to worry about.

Holding the little cup in my hands, I wander about the silent streets before glancing inside the darkened windows of Madame Malkin's. There she is, Cirilla, behind the desk, quickly throwing items into a bag (enchanted, no doubt..) with no real thought of organization.

Sensing something, she glances up before staring out the window, seeing me gawk at her in my unruly hair and misshapen pants and blouse, my little coffee cup steaming into my face. She offers a feeble smile before lifting up the satchel and striding out the door.

Cirilla does not approach me. Rather, she stays wisely on her side of the block, hands in her well-ironed brown slacks. "I didn't mean to." She calls to me, before ducking her head and walking away without a glance back at me, without even a final thought for the man she left, clinging to mere memories and the illusion of the woman he so loved in that silent hallway.


End file.
